Notes: This was supposed to be a oneshot. Now it's... not. I make no promises, but it may become a series of loosely connected ficlets if I feel the urge to write more. I'll leave it marked as complete, though, because there's no plot to be found here. Thank you all for your lovely comments on the first "chapter." You guys are fantastic.

Awakening

rosabelle

She wakes several times during the night. Never enough to open her eyes, but enough to reach for the comforter that's slipped away and tuck it around herself. Enough to be aware that it is her bare skin the silky sheets caress, and that there is a warm body at her side.

Each revelation alarms her at first, and then she wakes a little more. Enough to remember, and she hums to herself and slips back into a comfortable sleep.

When she finally opens her eyes, it is morning. Light spills in through in the blinds, and wakes to find him contemplating her in lazy silence. The comforter has slipped again, down to her waist, and he doesn't pretend not to watch her.

She bites her lip and stares back, warmth in the pit of her belly from his open admiration.

The last time she'd shared a bed with a man, she had lain awake the entire night afterwards. The hundred times before, he'd touched her without thought for her own pleasure and she'd said nothing. The hundred and first was once too many, and she'd turned away from him and cried silently until dawn, all the truths that she had been avoiding suddenly very plain to her. There was no trust left between them, and her husband no longer loved her.

In the morning, she'd made herself a cup of coffee and asked him to leave.

She wonders now how different her life would've been if she'd divorced him then, instead of waiting all these years.

There is no way to way to know.

But this man, the one kissing her good morning with his tongue caressing hers and his fingers curled around her hair, unbothered that her teeth are unbrushed and that she still wears traces of last night's make-up... she is enjoying herself with this man.

She kisses him again, a short brush of her lips against his.

"Sleep well?" His voice is low with sleep, and his breath on her cheek makes her squirm.

"Mmm." She lays back, arms stretched leisurely over her head. She smiles up at him with no trace of embarrassment when he eyes her breasts. It is nice, feeling desirable. "Yes."

"You hungry?" His fingertips, rough and yet gentle, brush her thigh. "I know a place."

"Are you offering to take me to breakfast?"

"Hey," he says, and now his palm is warm against the inside of her thigh. "I can be very romantic."

"Breakfast—" Her breath hitches when his touch slides higher, inch by inch. "Sounds wonderful. But maybe—not just yet."

"You sure?" His touch is infuriatingly light. "They have great omelets."

"I think I could stand to wait another hour," she murmurs, closing her eyes with a shiver.

She catches her breath when he finds what he's looking for and then he kisses her again with a murmured, "aye, aye, Captain" that makes her hum with laughter, and with no further thought, she gives herself over to enjoyment.